


Gargoyles

by alana_lerryn



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alana_lerryn/pseuds/alana_lerryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An annual ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gargoyles

Comfortably seated on a bench, legs asprawl, Doyle watched as Bodie prowled the tombstones, occasionally leaning forward to rub at a moss-covered inscription.

     “It’s over there,” Doyle said helpfully, waving his hand negligently to the right. 

     “I know,” Bodie said, the exasperation evident in his voice.  “Some interesting names here.  Stebbins.  Who’d go through life as Fred Stebbins?”

     “Someone did.”

     “Yeah.  Lots of them here, they must be a local family.  Jeffers, too.”

     Doyle gazed beyond his partner to the canal which ran adjacent to the graveyard and where two colourful narrow boats were slowly puttering along.  He would not, he thought, mind being buried here.  Quiet and peaceful with only the remote possibility that an occasional ex-CI5 agent might come trampling through the place.  The graveyard was well maintained without being manicured to within an inch of its life.  He liked the fact that daisies and dandelions were cheerfully flourishing in defiance of the blades of the mower.

     “Look,” said Bodie, “gargoyles.”  He pointed to the top of the church wall.  “Not exactly pretty, are they?  Not what you expect to find stuck on a church.”

     Doyle squinted toward the building against the light of the sun.  “Grotesques, actually,” he said.

     “Eh?”

     “They’re gargoyles when they’re conduits - water spouts - to keep rainwater away from the walls of the building and grotesques when they’re there for embellishment.”

     “Embellishment?  That’s a big word, Doyle.”

     “I’m full of ’em, sunshine.  Now shall we get on with it?”

     Bodie, it seemed, was in no hurry.  He wandered along the side of the church staring upward. 

     “You know,” he said, “that one looks a bit like Cowley.”

     Doyle shaded his eyes to see where his partner was pointing.  Certainly, he admitted to himself, the grotesque _did_ look a bit like their late and – in Bodie’s case at least – lamented boss.  There was a certain poised menace about the stone figure, the way Cowley had looked when he was leaning over his desk, hands flat on the polished wood surface,  head thrust forward, reading his agents the riot act. 

     “The gargoyle’s better looking,” he said and he smoothed his expression into one of suitable gravity when his partner glared at him.

     “I thought you said it was a grotesque.”

     “Yeah, it is.”  Doyle stared harder at the stone and wished he had his field glasses so that he could see the small figure more clearly.  The more he looked, the more it did look like Cowley, in one of his less charming moods, although the wings sprouting from its back gave it an unexpectedly rakish air.

     He wished Bodie would get on with it, but there would be no hurrying his partner today.  He got to his feet and sauntered closer to the church, stopping to admire a ginger cat which appeared out of nowhere and slunk toward him. 

     “Hello, puss.”  He crouched down and held out his hand but the cat ignored him disdainfully and made straight for Bodie.  Bodie did not like cats.  Doyle grinned and moved closer to his partner, 

     “Hey,” he said, “you’ve made a friend.”

     The cat twined itself around Bodie’s ankles and he stared down at it without moving and without expression.

     “Tell it to go away,” Bodie said.

     “It won’t listen to me – it obviously likes you.”  Doyle grinned.  “I used to have a cat a bit like that.  We called him Sam.  Marmalade Sam ’cause he was the colour of Robertson’s marmalade.  You know, the ones who used to give away the gollies?  I used to read the label while I was having me breakfast.”

     “We had our marmalade in a china pot,” Bodie said loftily.  “We obviously had more class than you.”

     “Of course you did,” Doyle agreed equably.  He strolled toward his partner who was trying not to let it show that he was backing away from the cat.  Between Doyle and his helper, they gradually herded Bodie across the graveyard to where Doyle wanted him to be.

     Why does it always take so long? Doyle asked himself.  Every time we come, it’s the same.  We get here, he shilly-shallies, I hold on to my patience with both hands and finally, finally, he gets to it.  Last year it was one of those miserable rainy days and I was ready to murder him.  Oh, Bodie!

     He knew – oh, of course he knew! – why Bodie always took so long to approach the grave.  When he saw George Cowley’s name on the simple granite headstone, Bodie would have to acknowledge all over again that his boss had not been invincible.  Cowley had retired to play golf and do some travelling and had died quietly in his sleep two weeks after the send-off they had given him.  He had never even had the chance to move into his new semi-detached in Wimbledon.

     He’d have hated it, Doyle thought.  I never did understand why he thought that was the kind of neighbourhood which would suit him. I thought he’d go back to Scotland – For Auld Lang Syne and all that.

     Patience giving out at last, he stepped forward, grabbed Bodie’s wrist and towed his reluctant partner across the remaining yards of grass until they stood in front of Cowley’s grave. 

     “There you are, you see,” he said cheerfully.  “He’s still here.  No one’s dug him up.”

     “For God’s sake, Doyle!”  Bodie sounded horrified.  “Show some respect!”

     Doyle shrugged.  “He never showed me much,” he said.  “I know you thought a lot of him, but you were his favourite and …”

     “His favourite?”

     “Is there an echo?” Doyle looked around.  “Yes, you were, and you know it.”

     He moved behind Bodie and slid his arms around his partner’s waist, resting his chin on Bodie's shoulder so that he could look at the tombstone as well.

     “Admit it,” he said softly, “you loved the man and, in his way, he loved you too.  Big, bad soldier boys.  Never admit to your feelings, do you?”

     That was not quite true.  In their bed, in the dark, Bodie made his feelings perfectly plain.  Over and over again.

     Doyle relished the feeling of Bodie’s warmth and he rubbed his face lovingly against the smooth, crisp cotton of his shirt.

     “Are you sure you aren’t related to Marmalade Sam?” Bodie asked, but he relaxed backward against his partner.

     “Not as far as I know.  Now come on, Bodie.  Get on with it.”

     Bodie cleared his throat.  “Been a good year,” he said gruffly.  “Me and Doyle, we’re out of CI5 now.  Could have stayed in, but we didn’t rate the new boss much.  It’s a woman.”

     “Can you see the grass moving?” Doyle asked.  “That’s the old man spinning …”

     “Shut up.”  But Bodie’s voice sounded as if he were trying not to laugh.  “So we’re sharing a flat now …”

     “Living in sin.”

     “… and it’s working out well …”

     “Now that I’ve got ’im house-trained.”

     “… and we’re setting up our own security business.”

     “Now he’s definitely spinning!”

     “One or two of the others want to come in with us and, well, we’re feeling pretty good, sir.  I’m happy.  The golly’s happy.”

     “Ecstatic,” Doyle grumbled.  “Now will you …”

     “All right, all right.”

     From his pocket Bodie a bottle of single malt whisky, unscrewed the lid and lifted the bottle to his lips.  “Here’s to you, George,” he said.

     He passed it to his partner and Doyle took a small sip before handing it back.  “Cheers, sir,” he said. 

     Ceremoniously Bodie upended the bottle and let the golden liquid spill out over the grass.

     Every year, Doyle thought, I expect to see the grass all brown and lots of dead worms.  But it always looks okay.

     Bodie stuck the bottle back into his pocket and sighed.

     “Time to go home,” he said.

     “Yeah.  Fancy a pub lunch?”

     “Sounds great.”

     They turned away toward the lych gate and Bodie’s fingers found and entwined with his lover’s.  Doyle squeezed them comfortingly.

 

Behind them, the grotesque gave a wheeze of a sigh, as if in frustrated exasperation, and then the wings stretched creakily and, with much strenuous huffing and puffing and laborious flapping, the creature unglued itself from the church and took off.  As it struggled to gain height, swerving to avoid the church tower, it muttered to itself.

     “A good single malt.  Every year he does it.  Good Scotch poured into the ground.  Blast the man!  Hasn’t he worked it out yet?  He sees, but he doesn’t _see._ ”

     Maybe next year he would be able to do it.  He was getting better.  Maybe next year he would be able to dive bomb that stupid boy of his and prevent him throwing good malt into the ground for the worms to guzzle.  He would give Bodie and that mop-haired partner of his the fright of their lives.

     He could hardly wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Gargoyle: a spout, terminating in a grotesque representation of a human or animal figure with open mouth, projecting from the gutter of a building for throwing rain water clear of a building. (Dictionary.com)  
> Grotesque: A style of painting, sculpture, and ornamentation in which natural forms and monstrous figures are intertwined in bizarre or fanciful combinations. (Dictionary.com)


End file.
